#  -THE -WIND-IN 
THE- CLEARING- &! 
DTHER- POEMS- & 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


Ktobert  Cameron  "Rogers 


Will  o'  the  Wasp.     A  Sea  Yarn  of  the  War 
of  1812 

Old   Dorset :    Chronicles   of    a   New   York 
Country  Side 

The  Wind  in  the  Clearing,  and  Other  Poems 
For  the  King,  and  Other  Poems 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS,  New  York  &  London 


THE  WIND  IN  THE 
CLEARING,  AND  OTHER 
POEMS  gg  BY  ROBERT 
CAMERON  ROGERS  :  :  : 


NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 

G.    P.    PUTNAM'S   SONS 

MDCCCXCV 


COPYRIGHT,  1894 

BY 

ROBERT  CAMERON  ROGERS 


Electrotyped,  Printed  and  Bound  by 

Ube  "Knickerbocker  press,  Wcw  £>ork 
G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


fs 


TO 

MY  FATHER 


904079 


CONTENTS 


THE    WIND    IN    THE    CLEARING  .  .  .  .  -3 

THE    UNLAUNCHED    BOAT 9 

THE   DANCING    FAUN 13 

HYLAS l8 

BLIND    POLYPHEMUS  . 22 

ODYSSEUS   AT    THE   MAST 26 

THE   DEATH    OF    ARGUS 3! 

LIKE    TO  A    SHIP 36 

MIDNIGHT    UPON    THE    BEACH 37 

THEORY      .           .           . 38 

A   SLEEPING    PRIESTESS   OF    APHRODITE      .  .  .40 

DESTINY 42 

COLUMBINE          .           . 44 

AT    LAST    .........  46 

THE  COMRADES 47 

NOAH  PORTER  ........  48 

VIRGIL'S  TOMB 50 

BARSET  WOOD 52 

THE  GRAY  HAWK 56 

v 


vi  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A*  OUTRANGE    .                  57 

SANTA  LUCIA    .                6 1 

TO  VIOLET 63 

THACKERAY'S  BIRTHDAY 64 

THE  OLD  SMOKER 67 

THE  COLONEL'S  STORY      ......  69 

SONGS  AND  SONNETS. 

SERENADE  IN  SEVILLE     .          .          .          .          .          -77 

AVALON  ........       79 

SONG  .........     80 

MIDSUMMER  NOON          .          .          .          .          .          .81 

IN  PRAISE  OF  DUSK        ......     82 

To  A  HARVEST  APPLE-TREE    .          .          .          .          -83 

AN  OPEN  QUESTION        ......     84 

IN  BONDAGE          .......     87 

THE  SHADOW  ROSE        ......     88 

"  I  WILL  LIFT  UP  MINE  EYES  UNTO  THE  HILLS  "  .          .89 
THE  LOST  SHIP    .......     90 

LOVE  LAY  ASLEEP          .          .          .          .          .  91 

THE  ROSARY         .......      92 

AN  OLD  ITALIAN  GARDEN        .          .          .          .          -93 

RIDING  SONG         .......     95 


THE  WIND  IN  THE  CLEARING. 


THE  WIND  IN  THE  CLEARING. 

i. 

"  WHERE  are  the  pines,"  said  the  wind  in  the  clearing — 

"  The  pines  that  I  knew  from  the  slip  to  the  tree, 
That  braved  me  and  laughed  in  my  face  though  I  loved 

them 
And  bore  their  sweet  breath  with  me  far  out  to  sea  ? " 

From  the  black,  charred  stumps  in  the  pasture, 
Half  hid  by  the  wild  berry  bushes, 
Came  a  voice — "  Here  are  we. 

"  The  axe  and  the  men  came  among  us, 

They  stretched  us  side  by  side 
In  the  dust  of  the  pines,  our  fathers, 

Who  stood  unscathed  in  their  pride, 
Till,  bowed  by  the  weight  of  the  years, 


4  THE    WIND  IN   THE   CLEARING 

They  fell  where  they  stood  and  died. 
We  have  walled  the  settler's  cabin 

With  stout  trunks  rugged  and  mossed, 
His  fire  has  fed  in  the  winter  nights 

On  the  tops  where  the  hawk's  nest  tossed, 
Our  bodies  are  dwarfed  and  crippled, 

And  homes  for  the  squirrel  and  bee, 
We  are  passing,  and  yet  we  have  served, 
Here  are  we." 

The  wind  blew  North,  the  wind  blew  East, 

West  blew  the  wind  and  South — 
It  whistled  and  whirled,  with  the  whirling  world, 

And  blew  rain  and  snow  and  drouth. 

ii. 

"  Where  are  the  brooks,"  said  the  wind  in  the  clearing, 
"  And  where  is  the  song  that  they  sang  to  me, 

While  brook  joined  brook  till  the  gathering  chorus 
Died  out  at  the  voice  of  the  sea  ; 

The  brooks  I  fed  with  the  rain  I  brought 


THE    WIND  IN   THE   CLEARING 

From  the  sad,  kind  heart  of  the  sea — 
The  warrn,  sweet  tears  of  the  Ocean — 

For  Nature's  tears  are  sweet, 
And  the  tears  of  men  are  bitter, 

Though  the  world  lies  at  their  feet." 

Out  of  the  sunny  pasture — 

From  turbid  pools,  once  clear, 
From  the  troubled  toss  at  the  millwheel, 

Came  answer,  "  We  are  here. 
They  have  checked  our  flow  by  the  mill-ponds, 

They  have  fouled  us,  one  by  one, 
With  dross  from  the  turbulent  millwheel, 

They  have  left  no  screen  from  the  sun  ; 
And  they  wonder  we  run  so  shallow — 

One  day  we  shall  cease  to  run. 

"  The  trout  are  gone  from  the  riffles, 

The  heron  has  left  the  sedge, 
And  our  voice  is  not  singing  but  sobbing, 

For  the  trees  that  stood  by  the  edge. 


6  THE    WIND  IN   THE   CLEARING 

But  down  in  the  noisy  ship-yard 

Where  the  sea  tides  ponder  and  dream, 
We  watch  the  great  frames  growing, 

We  see  the  white  ribs  gleam  ; 
And  we  know  the  wheels  we  toss  and  whirl 

Speed  the  mills  that  shape  each  beam, 
That  trim  the  planks  of  the  fair,  white  decks, 

That  fashion  the  keels  for  the  sea — 
One  day  we  shall  cease  our  flowing, 

And  yet  we  have  served — 

Here  are  we." 

The  wind  blew  North,  the  wind  blew  East, 

West  blew  the  wind  and  South — 
It  whistled  and  whirled,  with  the  whirling  world, 

And  blew  rain  and  snow  and  drouth. 

ill. 

"  Where  are  the  men,"  said  the  wind  in  the  clearing, 

"  The  men  who  furrowed  this  path  for  me 
Through  the  pines  I  loved  though  they  barred  my  way  ; 


THE    WIND  IN   THE   CLEARING  7 

Strong  were  they  and  ruddy  and  fierce, 
And  there  were  children  used  to  play 

By  the  side  of  the  brooks  now  sunk  away  ; " 

And  a  voice  said,  "  Here  are  we. 
We  are  old  and  shaken,  our  race  is  run, — 

We  sit  in  the  sunset  and  dream  of  the  sun, 
And  wait  for  a  rest  almost  begun. — 

We  stood  like  the  pines,  but  were  stronger  still — 
We  cleared  the  valley,  we  cleared  the  hill, 

We  fettered  the  brook  and  built  the  mill ; 
We  started  the  millwheel  on  its  round, — 

And  our  lives  ran  clear  as  the  brooks  we  bound. 

"  Our  children  ? — Look  in  the  towns  for  them — 

Another  age  has  troubles  to  stem 
As  hard,  may  be,  as  our  own  have  been. 

But  tell  us,  wanderer,  have  you  seen 
Our  children  away  in  the  distant  towns  ? 

Are  they  tall  and  sturdy,  as  once  we  stood, 
Do  they  grace  their  birth  in  the  "conquered  wood, 

Do  their  lives  run  clear  as  the  brooks  once  ran 


THE  WIND  IN  THE   CLEARING 

And  should  we  bless  them  or  should  we  ban 
Could  we  see  them  now  ? — but  't  is  far,  't  is  far, 
We  have  done  our  service, 

Lo  !     Here  we  are." 

The  wind  blew  North,  the  wind  blew  East, 

West  blew  the  wind  and  South — 
It  whistled  and  whirled,  with  the  whirling  world, 

And  blew  rain  and  snow  and  drouth. 


THE  UNLAUNCHED   BOAT. 

T.  G.  W. 
I. 

UPON  the  dry  sand  where  the  winter  tides 

Have  flung  the  largess  of  the  spendthrift  deep, 

In  the  half-shelter  of  the  dunes  I  sit. 

The  tide  ebbs  fast,  and  glimmering  in  the  sun, 

The  strip  of  beach  that  lies  debatable 

Betwixt  high  tide  and  low  broadens  apace, 

While  here  and  there  some  rock,  outcropping,  bares 

Its  rugged  knuckles  fringed  about  with  kelp. 

II. 

See  where  the  wheeling  Ring-necks  hold  their  course 
And  note  their  plaintive  treble  ; — strange,  how  strange 
The  mediums  that  Memory  employs, 
When  some  poor  straw  the  wind  may  set  afloat 


10  THE  UNLAUNCHED  BOAT 

Bridges  the  chasm  that  the  years  have  worn — 
So  even  now  that  far  and  mournful  cry, 
Like  an  enchanted  pitch-pipe  sounds  a  note 
To  which  the  clearest  chords  of  memory  ring. 

in. 

I  think  of  one  I  lost  beside  the  sea — 
The  sea  that  breaks  upon  the  dazzled  eyes 
Of  them  who  crest  the  last  green  slope  of  youth. 
Mute  in  the  half-noon  sun,  beside  our  boats, 
Waiting  the  favoring  tide,  we  stood  together 
Harkening  to  the  murmur  of  the  beach — 
Striving  to  penetrate  with  vague  surmise 
Mid-ocean  secrets  babbled  at  the  shore. 

IV. 

But  when  I  launched  my  craft  and  turned  to  him 

He  did  not  follow.     Now  a  mist  has  shut 

The  shore  away  from  me  and  yet  I  know 

It  is  not  distant,  for  at  times  I  hear 

The  sound  of  breakers, — still  my  pinnace  beats 


THE  UNLAUNCHED  BOAT  II 

About  the  offing, — still  I  sound  in  vain 

To  find  a  channel  to  the  open  sea. 

He  has  not  joined  me  yet — beyond  the  mist 

His  unlaunched  boat  lies  warping  in  the  sand, 

v. 

The  years  slip  by  with  eager  pace, 
The  pinnace  holds  the  selfsame  place, — 

Drifted  about  with  sand  behold 
The  figure-head's  calm,  carven  face. 

A  young  man's  face  and  open-eyed 
Upon  the  waters  stretching  wide — 

Forever  longing  for  their  breast 
Yet  just  beyond  the  highest  tide. 

Those  untried  timbers  ne'er  shall  feel 
The  rapture  of  the  sea,  the  reel 

Along  the  hillocks  of  the  deep 
With  dipping  rail,  with  glimmering  keel — 

That  shapely  prow  shall  never  grate 
Across  the  tide-washed  bar,  elate 


12  THE  UNLAUNCHED  BOAT 

To  sail  the  boundless  outer  sea 
Whose  floods  brim  through  the  Western  gate- 
No  harbor  in  the  islands  blest 
Awaits  thee  with  unruffled  breast, 

No  anchorage  for  wearied  keels, 
No  road-stead  of  accomplished  quest. 

Dim  through  the  mists  of  memory 
The  unlaunched  boat  I  sometimes  see, 

The  carven  figure  at  the  prow, 
The  sad  eyes  gazing  after  me  ; 

Those  longing  eyes  that  may  not  weep, 
Those  lips  that  ne'er  shall  kiss  the  deep, 

While  near,  yet  ever  out  of  reach, 
The  tempting  waters  curl  and  creep. 


THE  DANCING  FAUN. 


WHEN  Time  unswathed  the  ashen  winding  sheet 

That  wrapped  Pompeii — city  of  the  dead  ; 

And  once  again  the  Southern  azure  shed 
Its  light  through  ruined  court  and  empty  street  ; 

Lo  !  From  the  darkness,  where  no  human  tread 
Had  echoed  for  a  score  of  centuries, 

Appeared  a  multitude  of  gracious  shapes, 
A  pageant  of  the  long  lost  deities  ; — 

Hermes  and  Pan,  and  Bacchus  crowned  with  grapes, 
And  all  the  pleasant  demi-gods  and  fauns 
Who  thronged  the  woods  and  kept  the  fountains  pure. 

ii. 

They  could  not  die — no  fear  of  time  had  they, 
For  they  were  born  of  Art  and  must  endure 
13 


14  THE  DANCING  FAUN 

Whilst  Art  should  live.     The  city  stricken  lay 

About  them,  yet  they  took  nor  note  nor  care, 
Of  unseen  evenings  or  of  darkened  dawns  ; 

In  passing  years  they  had  no  place,  no  part, 
Until  at  last  the  soft  Italian  day 

Peered  in  upon  them  standing  silent  there, 

Divine  in  the  divinity  of  Art. 

And  one  there  was,  a  faun,  among  the  throng, 
With  limbs  forever  leaping  into  dance, 
With  head  flung  back,  as  though  he  heard,  perchance, 

The  far-off  echo  of  some  lost  Greek  song. 

in. 
Thou  dancer  of  two  thousand  years, 

Thou  dancer  of  to-day, 
What  silent  music  fills  thine  ears, 

What  Bacchic  lay, 
That  thou  shouldst  dance  the  centuries 

Down  their  forgotten  way  ? 

What  mystic  strain  of  pagan  mirth 
Has  charmed  eternally 


THE  DANCING  FAUN  15 

Those  lithe  strong  limbs,  that  spurn  the  earth  ? 

What  melody, 
Unheard  of  men,  has  Father  Pan 

Left  lingering  with  thee  ? 

Ah  !  where  is  now  the  wanton  throng 

That  round  thee  used  to  meet  ? 
On  dead  lips  died  the  drinking  song, 

But  wild  and  sweet, 
What  silent  music  urged  thee  on, 

To  its  unuttered  beat, 

That  when  at  last  Time's  weary  will 

Brought  thee  again  to  sight, 
Thou  cam'st  forth  dancing,  dancing  still 

Into  the  light, 
Unwearied  from  the  murk  and  dusk 

Of  centuries  of  night  ? 

Alas  for  thee  ! — Alas  again, 
The  early  faith  is  gone  ! 
The  Gods  are  no  more  seen  of  men 


1 6  THE  DANCING  FAUN 

All,  all  are  gone — 
The  shaggy  forests  no  more  shield 
The  Satyr  and  the  Faun. 

On  Attic  slopes  the  bee  still  hums, 

On  many  an  Elian  hill 
The  wild-grape  swells,  but  never  comes 

The  distant  trill 
Of  reedy  flutes,  for  Pan  is  dead, 

Broken  his  pipes  and  still. 

And  yet  within  thy  listening  ears 

The  pagan  measures  ring — 
Those  limbs  that  have  outdanced  the  years 

Yet  tireless  spring, — 
How  canst  thou  dream  Pan  dead  when  still 

Thou  seem'st  to  hear  him  sing  ! 

IV. 

Thou  gracious  Art,  whose  creatures  do  not  die, 
We  too  have  heard  the  far-off  magic  song, — 
We  too  have  caught  the  spirit  of  the  long 


THE  DANCING  FAUN  \J 

Soft  Southern  days  and  sheen  of  sapphire  sky. 

And  thus  we  listen,  like  the  dancing  faun, 
We  in  our  distant  New  World  haunts  and  hear 
Thy  music  nearer  coming,  and  more  near, 

And  feel  the  promise  of  thy  brightening  dawn. 


HYLAS. 

i. 

BENEATH  the  waters  of  the  Mysian  spring, 
The  sacred  spring  whose  guardians  are  we, 
My  sisters  and  myself  sat  dreamily. 
Through  the  clear  water  far  above  our  heads 
We  saw  the  floating  water-grasses  dark 
Against  the  cloudless  sky,  and  shadows  stretched 
In  the  long  afternoon,  across  the  pool, 
From  tall  reeds  dozing  by  the  sedgy  marge. 
Silent  we  sat,  and  watched  the  sacred  fish, 
Swift  gleams  of  amber  in  the  sunlit  pool, 
And  with  deft  fingers,  nimbly  twining,  wove 
Fillets  of  green  from  lissom  water  weed. 

ii. 
Mid-afternoon  had  come — when  low  and  clear 

Along  the  slender  channel  which  the  spring 
18 


HYLAS  19 

Sends  timidly  unto  the  unquiet  deep, 

We  heard  strange  voices  on  the  distant  beach  ; 

And  grating  of  stout  keels  upon  the  sand, 

And  sound  of  sailors  wading  through  the  surf, 

And  shouts  and  singing  in  the  Argive  tongue. 

Then  for  a  season  all  was  still  again 

Till,  while  we  marvelled,  plashing  through  the  sedge 

Came  eager  footsteps,  and  a  shadow  fell 

Across  the  pool,  and  we  beheld  a  face 

Stooped  to  the  surface  of  the  spring  to  drink, 

Bright  curling  hair  that  swam  upon  the  pool 

And  framed  a  face  that  Artemis  had  loved, 

Blue  eyes,  and  all  the  features  of  a  god. 

And  god  we  deemed  him,  never  having  seen 

The  short-lived  mortal  children  of  the  gods. 

in. 

E'en  now  I  know  not  how  it  came,  but  ere 
His  lips  had  more  than  stirred  the  pool  they  met 
My  lips,  and  all  of  us  together  flung 
Our  arms  about  him,  dragging  him  below 


2O      -  HYLAS 

To  the  soft  couches  of  the  sacred  spring. 
Quiet  at  last  he  lay,  and  on  his  brow 
We  set  the  wreaths  that  all  day  we  had  spun, 
And  with  caresses  strove  to  waken  him, 
Though  but  in  vain  ;  so  still  he  lay  we  drew 
In  terror  back,  not  knowing  what  had  come, 
Yet  fearing  we  had  done  a  grievous  wrong. 

IV. 

Now  night  drew  near,  and  once  again  we  heard 

Strange  voices  shouting  from  the  distant  shore  ; 

Hoarse  voices  crying    "  Hylas  !    Hylas  !    Haste  !  " 

Then  all  we  heard  was  "  Hylas,"  till  behold, 

Bruising  our  sacred  marge  with  mighty  feet, 

Two  figures  in  bright  armor  stood  and  gazed 

With  troubled  faces  in  the  darkening  pool. 

Ne'er  had  we  seen  twain  like  them  ;  even  he 

Who  lay  so  still  and  white  before  our  feet 

Was  not  so  near  divine.     Their  curling  hair 

From  underneath  their  helms  escaped  to  fall 

Upon  their  breast-plates,  whose  fierce  burnished  brass 


HYLAS  21 

Flung  back  a  challenge  to  the  sinking  sun. 
In  awe  we  sat,  lest  through  the  dusky  deeps 
They  should  behold  their  missing  friend,  and  call 
Swift  lightnings  from  their  stern  and  fearless  eyes 
Upon  the  sacred  waters  that  we  guard. 

v. 

But  at  the  last  they  turned,  and  cried  again 

Their  lost  friend's  name. — All  night  along  the  beach 

And  in  the  marshy  meadows  rang  the  cry, 

"  Hylas  !     Hylas  !  Why  lingerest  thou  so  long  ?  " — 

And  still  before  our  feet  he  lay,  his  eyes 

Unclosed  but  dim,  and  his  bright  curling  hair 

About  his  godlike  face. 


BLIND  POLYPHEMUS, 
i. 

ALL  day  upon  a  grassy  slope  I  stretch 

My  vast  uncertain  limbs.     About  me  stray 

The  sheep  I  used  to  watch,  whom  still  I  turn 

My  darkened  eye  upon,  and  I  can  hear 

The  patter  of  their  feet,  stray  near,  stray  far. 

I  hear  as  others  see,  and  still  my  voice 

Has  worship  with  the  sheep,  they  come  at  call. 

Sometimes  I  lie  so  still  the  new-weaned  lambs 

Huddle  against  me  when  the  wind  blows  cold, 

Sometimes  they  leap  upon  me  in  their  play. 

They  fear  me  not,  my  sheep  have  never  feared. 

My  hand  was  only  harsh  against  my  kind, 

And  those  fell  creatures  whom  the  gods  gave  souls 

To  vex  the  Mother  with  their  restless  lives. 

Aye,  such  as  he,  the  wily  Ithacan. 
22 


BLIND  POLYPHEMUS  23 

II. 

For  one  long  year  I  saw  him,  day  by  day, 

Against  the  scar-seamed  curtain  of  mine  eye, — 

His  quick  frank  smile,  his  eyes  that  read  one's  mind 

Yet  never  gave  me  glimmer  of  his  own, — 

His  lean  strong  arms  and  broad,  brown,  knotted  back, 

And  his  gaunt  followers  all  like  to  him 

As  little  foxes  to  their  keen-eyed  sire. 

And  each  day,  for  a  year,  I  felt  my  way 

Down  to  the  beach,  and  washed  the  healing  wound, 

And  laid  my  head  upon  the  cool  wet  sand, 

And  cried  to  Father  Sea  to  pay  my  score, 

Tenfold  redoubled,  on  the  crafty  one  ; 

To  drive  him  rudderless  on  outer  seas, 

To  drift  him  wide  of  port,  to  suck  his  men 

Deep  into  eddying  water-pits — to  death  ; 

And  then  when,  day  by  day,  his  blurring  eyes 

Had  strained,  to  heart-break,  for  a  sight  of  port, 

To  show  him  land,  and  then — to  strike  him  blind. 


24  BLIND  POLYPHEMUS 

III. 

But  peace  has  come  at  last.     My  brothers  deem 

Because  I  rage  no  more,  that  I  am  mad  ; 

Because  my  sight  is  turned  upon  myself 

And  I  see  dimly  where  the  brute  has  lain 

That  made  my  heart  his  lair,  and  find  it  foul. 

I  cannot  drive  my  past  into  the  past, 

My  memory  holds,  but  I  shall  curse  no  more. 

IV. 

And  often  I  forget, — when  at  my  side 

The  old  ram  crouches,  legs  beneath  him  bent, 

And  round  his  wrinkled  horns  I  grip  my  hands 

And  pillow  soft  my  face  upon  his  flank. 

Sleep  comes — the  blind  may  sleep  as  sweet  and  deep 

As  those  whose  eyes  are  weary  of  the  day, — 

And  at  my  side  the  ram  lies  quietly — 

He  guards  me  now,  for  once  I  guarded  him. 

v. 

And  Zeus  grants  one  delight ; — when  day  is  gone, 
When  night  blinds  all,  my  sight  comes  back  to  me  ; 


BLIND  POLYPHEMUS  2$ 

And  I  can  see,  as  last  I  saw,  the  day — 

The  great  blue  breathing  deep — the  black-ribbed  slag 

That  Titans  flung  from  ^Etna's  forge  to  cool 

Amid  the  breakers,  and  away,  beyond, 

The  coast  of  Italy. — Again  I  see 

The  hazy  hills  where  graze  my  brothers'  sheep, 

The  olive  trees  that  bow  themselves  and  peer 

Down  grassy  gullies,  and  the  timid  joy 

Of  almond  trees  in  bloom. 

When  morning  comes 
The  ewes  unbidden  crowd  about  my  knees, 
And  with  blind  hands  grown  gentler  than  of  old 
I  milk  them  one  by  one  ; — then  pasturewards 
I  follow  them  who  one  time  followed  me. 


ODYSSEUS  AT  THE  MAST, 
i. 

AND  so  they  bound  me  to  the  moaning  mast 
With  hempen  withes  full  fast,  and  once  again, 
Their  ears  against  the  outer  world  close  sealed, 
My  comrades  bent  to  the  slow  yielding  oar, 
Chanting  together  as  we  sped  along 
A  song  whose  cadence,  faintly  heard  by  them, 
Brought  back  to  mind  the  fateful  plain  of  Troy, 
The  ranks  of  ships,  beached  on  a  hostile  shore, 
And  heroes  round  them  by  the  fires  at  night. 
And  every  singer  to  the  well-known  strain 
Kept  time  in  singing,  each  man  at  his  oar — 
Their  shaggy  breasts  with  many  a  scar  thick-seamed, 
Their  brown  backs  straightening  to  the  pulse  of  song 

II. 

When,  high  above  the  swinging  chorus,  high 

Above  the  mouthing  of  the  listless  deep, 

26 


OD YSSE US  AT  THE  MAST  2? 

I  heard  the  sirens'  song,  and  saw  the  surf 
White  on  their  reefs  hard  by  upon  our  lee, 
And  saw  the  sisterhood  of  those  who  keep 
Keen  watch  to  lure  the  mariner  to  wreck, — 
The  fell,  fair  sisters,  with  their  tawny  hair 
Tossed  by  the  wind  about  their  shining  necks, 
Strewing  their  bosoms  with  the  gleaming  drift, 
And  lapped  about  them  like  a  snare  of  gold. 
And  when  they  saw  our  nearing  galley  push 
Its  brazen  prow  above  the  combing  waves 
That  girt  the  shoals,  they  flung  the  yellow  hair 
Back  from  their  faces  and  cried  out  to  me  : 
"  Turn  thou,  O  warrior,  who  hither  come, 
Turn  now  and  rest,  for  yet  the  day  is  young, 
Fierce  is  the  noon-day  sun,  rest  here  with  us 
Till  evening  come  !  " — but  no  response  gave  I, 
And  naught  my  comrades  heard  of  what  they  said, 

in. 

Then  they  began  once  more  to  sing.     Ah  Zeus  ! 
Such  singing,  with  a  beckoning  of  hands, 


28  ODYSSEUS  AT  THE  MAST 

Was  never  given  me  before  to  hear. 

I  knew  what  fatal  madness  hidden  lay 

In  every  note,  that  through  their  symphony 

An  after-tone  of  death  went  quivering, 

Yet  all  my  thought  was,  only  let  me  hear  ! 

And  as  they  sang,  upcrowding  came  the  past, 

Hope's  flame  grew  cold,  to  sudden  ashes  fell 

The  sharp  desire  of  home  and  fatherland. 

And  then  a  lying  vision  filled  mine  eyes, 

And  all  the  sea  about  looked  calm  and  still, 

While  those  who  sang  seemed  beckoning  to  a  shore 

With  sloping  beach  and  meadow  sweeps  beyond, 

And  sunny  hills  low  rising  back  of  them, 

And  oh  !  the  beauty  of  the  lips  that  sang  ! 

IV. 

Then  wild  desire  and  frantic  folly  shot 
Through  all  my  frame,  and  with  a  sudden  cry 
I  wrenched  my  bonds,  but  tightened  them  the  more, 
Straining  the  cords  until  they  cut  the  flesh, 
Striving  so  fiercely  that  I  shook  the  mast, 


ODYSSEUS  AT  THE  MAST  2g 

And  shouted  to  my  men  to  cut  my  bonds. 
And  two  of  them  sprang  up,  but  steadfastly 
And  heedless  of  my  cries  they  tighter  drew 
The  withes  about  my  limbs,  then  sank  again 
Upon  the  galley  seats.     Again  the  song 
Pulsed  rhythmic  with  the  cadence  of  the  oars, 
And  straight  ahead  the  steersman's  eyes  were  set 
As  though  he  saw,  slow  rising  on  the  line 
Where  meet  the  lips  of  Sky  and  Father  Sea, 
The  rocky  skirted  isle  that  was  our  home  ; 
As  though  he  saw  at  sport  along  the  shore 
The  babes  that  we  had  left  in  swaddling  clothes, 
And  heard  the  murmur  of  the  narrow  streets 
That  seam  the  cliffs  of  far-off  Ithaca. 
And  I,  whose  standard  they  had  clung  about, 
Whose  flame  of  fortune  they  had  fed  and  fanned, 
Would  fain  have  turned  them  to  their  utter  wreck, 
And  strewn  their  bones  along  the  sunken  reefs 
That  prop  the  seats  whereon  the  sirens  sing  ! 


3O  ODYSSEUS  AT  THE  MAST 

V. 

But  Pallas  stood  my  friend  yet  once  again, 
And  ever  fainter  as  we  held  our  course 
The  singing  fell  upon  my  panting  soul, 
Until  all  sound  was  dead  except  the  plash 
Of  tired  oar-blades  catching  at  the  sea  ; 
For  from  sheer  weariness  my  comrades'  song 
Had  ceased,  and  lying  breathless  on  their  oars 
They  gazed  at  me  with  their  deep  sunken  eyes 
And  read  my  will,  and  took  my  stiffened  frame 
Down  from  the  mast,  and  with  glad  hearts  set  free 
Their  captive  sense.     Then  presently  again 
They  fell  upon  the  oars,  for  we  could  hear 
Low  breathed  along  the  sultry  wind  a  sound, 
Not  of  the  sirens'  song  alluring  us, 
But  the  wild  charging  cry  of  waves  that  stormed 
That  fearful  pass,  flanked  by  twin  caverns,  where 
Charybdis  and  her  sister  Scylla  watch. 


THE  DEATH  OF  ARGUS. 


His  mighty  arms  were  bare, — his  beggar's  garb 
Showed  through  its  rents  the  massy  chest  beneath 
On  which  his  tangled  beard  fell  full,  his  face 
Was  lean  and  browner  than  the  russet  rocks, 
And  from  their  deep-sunk  sockets  his  dark  eyes 
Burned  through  the  ashes  of  a  thousand  hopes. 

n. 

Now,  it  befell  that  children  were  at  play 

Upon  the  beach  this  day,  with  treasures  trove 

Of  ocean  shores  ;  quaint,  living,  star-shaped  things 

Tresses  of  sea-weed  like  to  women's  hair, 

And  glossy  tangles  of  the  ribbon  grass. 

Fain  had  Odysseus  joined  them,  for  his  heart 

Went  out  to  them,  the  laughing  half-grown  lads, 
31 


32  THE  DEATH  OF  ARGUS 

Sons  of  the  half-grown  lads  who  years  before 
Cheered  the  swift  galleys  headed  towards  the  East 
To  that  fierce  leaguer  round  the  walls  of  Troy  ; 
But  though  his  voice  was  kind,  they  drew  apart 
In  sudden  apprehension,  as  if  he 
Were  some  strange  creature  of  the  main,  some  shape 
Wild  and  sinister  from  the  tameless  sea. 

III. 

He  laughed  and  hoarsely  through  his  laughter  ran 
Sounds  as  of  surf,  half  anger  and  half  grief  ; 
The  laugh  of  one  who  lived  upon  the  sea, 
Who  knew  its  bitter  mirth  and  long  complaint ; 
Then  up  the  cliff  he  clomb  and  left  the  shore 
And  wandered  in  the  outskirts  of  the  town, 
Till,  coming  on  an  open  gate,  he  paused, 
For  there,  beside  a  hovel's  door,  prone  stretched 
Within  the  sunlight,  Argus  lay  asleep. 

IV. 

Prone  in  a  patch  of  sunlight  Argus  lies, 
Argus  the  hound,  the  keen  Mollossian  dog 


THE  DEATH  OF  ARGUS  33 

Odysseus  loved  and  praised  ere  yet  his  ships 
Sailed  Troyward  to  the  long  enduring  war 
A  score  of  years  gone  by, — his  shrivelled  form 
Scarce  shapes  the  rugged  skin  that  covers  it, 
His  strong  legs  now  but  serve  his  only  heed, 
To  drag  him  from  the  shadow  to  the  sun, — 
His  shrunk  lips  cling  against  his  toothless  jaws  ; 
Those  eyes  that  ever  first  beheld  the  stag 
Like  some  dun  shadow  darting  through  the  wood, 
Are  darkened  now,  and  the  deep-throated  cry 
That  roused  on  every  cliff  the  echo-sprites 
Is  scarce  a  whine  to  beg  a  daily  crust. 

v. 

The  old  dog  dreams,  and  sudden  quivers  run 
Along  his  withered  flank,  and  fitfully 
His  great  paws  move,  for  once  again  he  seems 
To  lead  the  chase,  to  pull  the  quarry  down, 
To  see  the  huntsmen  breathless  gathering  in  ; 
And  over  all  he  hears  the  clear-toned  voice 
Of  one  who  calls  him  "  Argus,  prince  of  dogs," 
And  buffets  playfully  his  mighty  head. 


34  THE  DEATH  OF  ARGUS 

VI. 

The  hunt  still  sweeps  along  the  rocky  paths 
And  through  the  wood  with  hound  and  net  and  spear  ; 
And  still  from  rocky  cleft  and  forest  nook 
The  little  echo  gods  peer  forth  and  gibe  ; — 
But  nevermore,  with  half  admiring  spleen, 
They  swell  their  pigmy  chests  and  vainly  strive 
To  mock  the  deep,  far-sounding,  clamorous  cry 
Of  Argus,  leading  all  the  clean-limbed  hounds. 

VII. 

Into  his  dream  again  the  well  known  voice 

Breaks  suddenly — he  hears  his  master  say 

"  Argus,  do  you  like  all  the  rest  forget  ?  " 

He  wakes,  he  knows  the  unforgotten  tones, 

He  strives  to  whine,  to  lift  himself,  in  vain, 

His  breath  comes  short,  his  limbs  are  powerless  : 

Yet  still  his  head  and  ears  a  little  move, 

His  tail  stirs  feebly  and  his  sightless  eyes 

Turn  upwards  piteously  as  if  to  say  : 

"  Oh  master  mine,  lo  I  remember  thee, — 


THE  DEATH  OF  ARGUS  35 

But  I  am  old  and  weak  and  near  to  death — 
I  cannot  fawn  and  leap  and  be  thy  dog, 
Thy  dog  of  old — I  cannot  show  the  love 
That  I  have  kept  so  long  for  one  caress, — 
But,  master,  I  have  not  forgotten  thee." 
Then  came  a  sudden  gasping,  quivering  sigh, 
And  he  who  loved  and  knew  not  to  forget, 
Argus,  the  hound  Odysseus  loved,  was  dead. 

VIII. 

Then  shed  Odysseus  the  first  bitter  tears 
Since  to  his  own  he  came  to  find  his  own 
Forgetful  of  him.     Ofttimes  had  he  wept 
In  various  sorrows  and  few  tears  were  left 
To  soften  the  tense  cordage  of  his  heart  ; 
But,  on  the  withered  form  before  his  feet, 
The  poor  shrunk  image  of  what  once  had  been 
The  keen  companion  of  his  happier  years, 
The  tears  fell  swiftly  ;  bitter,  burning  tears 
From  that  hot,  wounded  yet  unconquered  heart. 


LIKE  TO  A  SHIP. 

LIKE  to  a  ship,  upon  a  shoreless  ocean, 
Manned  by  an  ever-growing  crew  of  years, 

My  life  slips  onward  and  with  vain  devotion, 
My  soul  stands  silent  at  the  helm  and  steers. 

If  one  strong  wind  would  blow  direct  and  single, 
Then  would  I  turn  wherever  it  might  call, — 

But  many  winds  there  are,  that  madly  mingle, 
And  I  must  trim  my  sails  to  favor  all. 

So  whether  I  be  drifting  or  be  sailing, 
I  know  not  and  alas  shall  never  know  : 

My  life  is  one  desire,  unavailing, 
That  some  strong  settled  single  wind  would  blow. 


MIDNIGHT  UPON  THE  BEACH. 

No  sound  of  life  was  heard,  the  plover  long 
Had  sought  amid  the  reeds  a  safe  retreat  ; 

The  lark  was  dreaming  of  her  morning  song 
In  yonder  meadow  deep  amid  the  wheat. 

A  drowsy  stillness  brooded  o'er  the  deep, 
The  very  air  with  dreaminess  was  fraught  ; 

The  murmur  of  the  ebb  tide  in  its  sleep, 

Was  all  the  sound  the  listening  night  wind  caught. 


37 


THEORY. 

"  Sunt  geminae  Somni  portse     .     . 

Altera  candenti  perfecta  nitens  elephanto  ; 
Sed  falsa  ad  ccelum  mittunt  insomnia  manes." 

VIRG.  sEn.,  lib.  vi. 

SHE  was  so  beautiful  I  could  but  follow  ; 

Her  words  seemed  truth  itself,  I  could  not  doubt, 
And  so  she  led  me  out  beyond  the  hollow 

Half-hearted  living  of  the  world  about. 

Steep  though  the  upward  path  without  misgiving 
I  followed  as  she  led,  and  more  and  more 

She  grew  to  seem  the  guide  to  that  true  living 
That  I  had  set  my  life  to  looking  for. 

Footsore  I  grew  and  faint,  through  never  nearing 

The  goal,  yet  hopeful  ever  of  the  prize, — 

38 


THEOR Y  39 

When  suddenly  athwart  my  path  appearing 
I  saw  a  distant  gleaming  barrier  rise  ; — 

A  sheer  white  wall,  pierced  by  a  single  gateway, 

Guarding  twin  doors  of  ivory  finely  cut, 
Twin  doors  that  as  I  neared  them  opened  straightway, 

And  passed  my  leader  through  and  swiftly  shut. 

But  when  I  came  and  stood  beside  them  knocking, 
And  strove  to  move  the  strong-joined  silent  beams, 

Forth  came  a  voice  in  sadness  half,  half  mocking, 
"  Thou  fool,  go  back,  this  is  the  gate  of  dreams." 


A  SLEEPING  PRIESTESS  OF  APHRODITE. 

SHE  dreams  of  Love  upon  the  temple  stair — 
About  her  feet  the  lithe  green  lizards  play 
In  all  the  drowsy,  warm,  Sicilian  air. 

The  winds  have  loosed  the  fillet  from  her  hair  ; 

Sea  winds,  salt-lipped,  that  laugh  and  seem  to  say  : 
"  She  dreams  of  Love,  upon  the  temple  stair, 

"  Then  let  us  twine  soft  fingers,  here  and  there, 

Amid  the  gleaming  threads  that  drift  and  stray 
In  all  the  drowsy,  warm,  Sicilian  air, 

"  And  let  us  weave  of  them  a  subtle  snare 
To  cast  about  and  bind  her,  as  to-day 

She  dreams  of  Love,  upon  the  temple  stair." 
40 


A    SLEEPING  PRIESTESS  OF  APHRODITE       41 

Alas,  the  madcap  winds,  how  much  they  dare  ! 
They  wove  the  web,  and  in  their  wanton  way, 
In  all  the  drowsy,  warm,  Sicilian  air, 

They  bound  her  sleeping,  in  her  own  bright  hair. 

And  as  she  slept  came  Love — and  passed  away — 
She  dreams  of  Love,  upon  the  temple  stair, 
In  all  the  drowsy,  warm,  Sicilian  air. 


DESTINY. 

To  one  she  gave  a  rose  and  said, 

"  See  to  it  well  it  does  not  die." 
To  one  a  bunch  of  poppies  red, 

"  Lo,  guard  them  well,"  then  bade  good-bye. 

The  slow  years  came,  the  slow  years  went — 
A  stately  rose  tree  upward  grew — 

To  every  summer  flung  its  scent, 
With  every  summer  bloomed  anew. 

The  slow  years  went,  the  slow  years  came, 

Thickly  before  an  empty  shrine 
The  poppies  stood,  like  sprays  of  flame, 

Like  sunbeams  shot  through  Chian  wine. 

He  of  the  rose,  his  whole  career 

Was  like  the  rose,  Fate's  early  dower, — 
42 


DESTINY  43 

Success  pursued  him  year  by  year, 

And  year  by  year  came  fame  and  power. 

He  of  the  poppies — No  one  wept 
His  end,  though  last  of  all  his  line, 

For  through  his  life  his  soul  had  slept, 
And  dreamed,  before  an  empty  shrine. 


COLUMBINE. 

PERHAPS  she  had  sung  it  an  hundred  times, 
That  same  little  song  with  its  waltz-time  catch, 

And  its  quiver  and  trill  like  the  crazy  chimes, 
On  Harlequin  there  with  his  paint  and  patch. 

But  somehow  to-night  in  its  lightest  part, 
Some  chord  she  touched  not  quite  the  same, 

Some  chord  that  quivered  about  her  heart 
For  into  her  eyes  a  swift  mist  came  ; 

And  I  thought ;  "just  then  for  a  little  while 
She  thought  of  the  time  when  life  was  sweet, 

Ere  the  world  seemed  masked  in  a  painted  smile 
Like  the  wanton  Harlequin  there  at  her  feet — 

"  When  living  was  not  all  pantomime, 

And  she  only  sang  when  her  heart  was  gay 

44 


COLUMBINE  45 

As  it  often  was  in  that  dear  lost  time  "  ; 
And  yet  perchance  the  whole  thing  lay 

In  a  twinging  pain  from  her  narrow  shoe, 

Or  the  lights  with  their  glitter  and  glare  and  dance, 

Or  the  fear  of  a  hiss  when  the  song  was  through, 
So  much  lies  after  the  word — "  perchance." 

Over  at  last,  the  song — Once  more 

Pantaloon  romps  in  his  maudlin  style, — 

Again  the  audience  yawn  or  roar, 

At  the  wanton  clown  with  his  painted  smile. 


AT  LAST. 

"  Strew  on  her  roses,  roses — 
And  never  a  spray  of  yew." 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 

THE  last  few  words  have  been  spoken, 

The  ashes  have  rung  on  the  bier, 
And  some  there  be  almost  heart-broken, 

But  I  have  shed  never  a  tear. 

She  pondered  life's  problem  as  I  did, 

She  pined  in  its  limits  and  thrall, 
And  now  it  has  all  been  decided, 

And  now  she  knows  nothing  or  all. 

I  shed  not  a  tear — for  weeping 

Were  folly  for  one  who  has  gone 
To  the  rest  of  an  endless  sleeping, 

Or  the  light  of  a  long-sought  dawn. 
46 


THE  COMRADES. 

A  SHAPE  came  striding  down  the  road, 
His  locks  were  gray  and  stern  his  mien,- 
His  lean  hand  gripped  a  sickle  keen, 

And  all  men  shunned  him  as  he  strode. 

But  seated  on  a  broken  shaft, 

Where  once  a  sculptured  god  had  been, 
Remained  a  figure  gaunt  and  thin, 

Who  looked  into  his  face  and  laughed. 

The  reaper  halted — at  his  breath 

The  waning  sunlight,  shivering,  fled, — 
And  slowly  to  the  mocker  said  ; 

"  Rash  loiterer,  my  name  is  Death." 

The  other  flung  his  faded  hair 

Into  the  wind  and  laughed  once  more  ; 

"  Thou  art  my  trusty  friend  of  yore," 
He  said — "  for  I  am  called  Despair." 


47 


NOAH  PORTER. 

Obiit  March,  1892. 

ALIKE  all  loved  him, — careful  student,  drone, 
Scapegrace  or  steady  man,  all  knew 

His  mild  reproof  was  for  their  good  alone, 
And  his  reproofs  were  few. 

No  man  remembers  him  to  have  his  heart 

Tingle  with  some  keen  unforgotten  smart. 

Small  gift  of  comeliness  had  he,  scant  grace 

Of  bearing,  little  pride  of  mien, 
He  had  the  rugged  old-time  Roundhead  face, 

Severe  and  yet  serene ; 
But  through  his  clear  unwavering  eyes  of  blue 

The  soul  shone  fearless,  steadfast,  calm,  and  true. 

48. 


NOAH  PORTER  49 

And  when  at  times  he  smiled  I  always  thought 
Of  early  rare  New  England  springs, — 

Of  sudden  fleeting  April  sunbeams  caught 
Amid  some  farm  that  clings 

Rock-sown,  ill  paying  them  who  strive  to  till, 

Along  the  crest  of  a  New  England  hill. 

He  loved  the  truth  ;  the  vision  of  his  mind, 

Discerning,  clear,  he  would  not  dim 
With  half  true  compromise, — he  cast  behind 

All  that  rang  false  to  him. 
His  work  is  over  now,  his  labor  done, 
His  requiescat  well  and  fully  won. 

The  college  elms  are  sleeping,  winter  still 
Broods  in  the  sap,  but  soon  their  veins 

Under  the  waxing  April  suns  will  thrill, 
And  soon  come  April  rains 

And  they  will  wake  and  bow  themselves  and  wait 

For  sight  of  one  for  whom  they  wake  too  late. 

4 


VIRGIL'S   TOMB. 

"CECINI     PASCUA,    RURA,    DUCES." 

ON  an  olive  crested  steep 
Hanging  o'er  the  dusty  road, 
Lieth  in  his  last  abode, 

Wrapped  in  everlasting  sleep, 

He  who  in  the  days  of  yore 

Sang  of  pastures,  sang  of  farms, 
Sang  of  heroes  and  their  arms, 

Sang  of  passion,  sang  of  war. 

When  the  lark  at  dawning  tells, 
Herald  like,  the  coming  day, 
And  along  the  dusty  way 

Comes  the  sound  of  tinkling  bells 
50 


VIRGWS   TOMB  5 1 

Rising  to  the  tomb  aloft, 

While  some  modern  Corydon 

Drives  his  bleating  cattle  on 
From  the  stable  to  the  croft ; 

Then  the  soul  of  Virgil  seems 
To  awaken  from  its  dreams, 
To  sing  again  the  melodies 
Of  which  he  often  tells, — 

The  music  of  the  birds, 

The  lowing  of  the  herds, 
The  tinkling  of  the  bells. 


BARSET  WOOD. 

COLONIAL    NEW    ENGLAND. 

THE  clouds  hung  close  on  Bolton  hill, 

Through  Barset  wood  the  wind  was  sighing, 

And  now  and  then  when  it  was  still, 
The  distant  bay  was  heard  replying. 

Half  down  the  hill  from  Barset  wood 

The  "  Plow  and  Anvil  "  tavern  stood. 

"  This  night  ten  years — "  the  landlord  said, 
"  When  coming  from  the  Squire's  shearing, — 

Old  Rover  there  was  on  ahead, — 

We  found  the  corpse  in  Whitewood  clearing, 

All  writhed  and  bleeding,  torn  and  hacked. 

God  curse  the  knave  who  did  the  act  ! 
52 


BAR  SET   WOOD  53 

Next  day  we  found  a  bloody  trail, 

Through  Barset  wood  and  down  the  hollow 

And  to  the  shore  ;  't  was  no  avail, 

And  at  the  shore  we  ceased  to  follow, — 

For  there  the  tide  the  scent  had  drowned  ; 

And  that  was  all  we  ever  found." 

The  landlord  ceased  ;  the  gossips  drew 

Their  chairs  up  closer  to  the  fire, 
Each  told  the  little  that  he  knew, 

While  out  of  door  the  gale  rose  higher — 
When  suddenly  rang  out  the  beat 
Along  the  road,  of  horses'  feet. 

The  landlord  opened  wide  the  door, 

Out'  through  the  night  the  light  went  flaring, 

And  from  the  darkness,  covered  o'er 

With  spattered  mud,  a  horse  came  bearing 

A  man  with  eyes  and  hair  of  jet 

Above  a  pale  face  strangely  set. 


54  BAR  SET   WOOD 

"A  glass  of  ale  " — he  drank  and  paid — 
"  God's  curse,"  he  said,  "  how  black  it 's  growing  !  " 
The  landlord  ventured,  half  afraid, 

To  hope  he  was  no  farther  going  ; — 
"  Why  not  ?  "  he  said,  "  I  know  the  way 
Blindfold  'twixt  here  and  Southam  Bay." 

"  Yet  stay,"  all  urged  ;  "  the  night  is  dark, 
Such  heavy  clouds  the  moon  are  veiling, 

The  road  is  steep  and  rough,  and  hark  ! 
The  storm  in  Barset  wood  is  wailing — 

The  wood  is  haunted  " — so  they  said, 

And  through  the  wood  the  highway  led. 

"  Stand  back  !  "  he  said  ;  "  an  old  wife's  tale 
That  children  shudder  at  and  dream  on, 

What  do  I  care  for  moaning  gale, 

For  shrouded  ghost  or  spectre  demon  !  " — 

The  landlord  loosed  the  horse's  head 

And  off  into  the  dark  he  sped. 


BARSET   WOOD  55 

All  night  the  wind  in  Barset  wood 

Moaned  like  a  child  of  horror  dreaming, 

And  farmers  swore  by  bad  and  good 

They  saw  the  ghost-lights  pale  and  gleaming 

Pass  through  the  hemlocks  gaunt  and  old 

And  vanish  in  the  haunted  wold. 

And  one  who  with  his  dog  and  gun 

In  Barset  wood  had  been  belated, 
Saw  down  the  swale  a  gray  horse  run 

Who  seemed  with  a  strange  burden  freighted. 
Two  figures  rode  it  as  it  ran, 
And  one  was  not  a  living  man. 

And  at  the  cliff  above  the  bay, 

The  man  who  kept  the  light-house  tower 
Saw,  at  what  time  he  could  not  say, 

Though  't  was  about  the  midnight  hour, 
A  breathless  horse  with  riders  twain 
Dash  seaward,  in  the  mist  and  rain. 


THE  GRAY  HAWK. 

THE  great  gray  hawk,  he  lingers  late 

Circling  over  the  tangled  copse, — 
Why  does  he  not  rejoin  his  mate 

In  the  tufted  gloom  of  the  pine-tree  tops  ? 

Off  to  his  nest  in  the  ragged  pine 

The  gray  hawk  flaps  his  slow-winged  flight, 

While  the  early  stars  begin  to  shine 

And  soft  through  the  wood  comes  the  breath  of  night. 

Look,  look  there  in  the  tangled  copse  ! 

Is  it  a  man  who  lies  asleep  ? 
See  on  his  face  the  thick  dark  drops, 

And  what  is  it  gapes  in  his  head  so  deep  ? 

The  great  gray  hawk  has  reached  his  nest 

In  the  ragged  pine  above  the  steep, 
All  light  is  dying  from  out  the  West, 

And  one  still  lies  in  the  copse  asleep. 


A'  OUTRANGE. 

FRANCE,  XVII.  CENTURY. 

"  HEIGHO  !  Why  the  plague  did  you  wake  me — 

It  's  barely  an  half  after  four  ? 
My  head,  too,  is — ah  !  I  remember 

That  little  affair  at  the  shore. 
Well,  I  had  forgotten  completely  ; 

I  must  have  been  drinking  last  night — 
Rapiers,  West  Sands,  and  sunrise — 

But  whom,  by  the  way,  do  I  fight  ? 

De  Genlis  !     Ah,  now  I  recall  it — 

He  started  it  all,  did  he  not  ? 
I  drank  to  his  wife — but,  the  devil  ! 

He  need  n't  have  gotten  so  hot. 
Just  see  what  a  ruffler  that  man  is 

To  give  me  a  challenge  to  fight — 
57 


58  A1  OUTRANGE 

And  only  for  pledging  milady 
A  half  dozen  times  in  a  night. 

Ah,  well,  it  's  a  beautiful  morning, 

The  sun  just  beginning  to  rise, — 
A  glorious  day  for  one's  spirit 

To  pilgrimage  off  to  the  skies — 
God  keep  mine  from  any  such  notion, 

This  duel  's  a'  entrance,  you  see, 
I  have  n't  confessed  for  a  month  back, 

And  have  n't  had  breakfast,  tantpis  ! 

Well,  here  we  are,  first  at  the  West  Sands ! 

The  tide  is  well  out, — and  how  red 
The  sunrise  is  painting  the  ocean — 

Is  that  a  sea-gull  overhead  ? 
And  here  come  De  Genlis  and  Virron — 

Messieurs,  we  were  waiting  for  you 
To  complete,  with  the  sea  and  the  sunrise, 

The  charming  effect  of  the  view. 


A'  OUTRANGE  59 

Are  we  ready  ?     Indeed,  we  were  waiting 

Your  orders,  Marigny  and  I — 
On  guard  then  it  is,  we  must  hasten  ; 

The  sun  is  already  quite  high. — 
Where  now  would  you  like  me  to  pink  you  ? 

I  've  no  choice  at  all,  don't  you  see, 
And  any  spot  you  may  desire 

Will  be  convenable  for  me. 

From  this  hand-shake  I  judge  I  was  drinking 

Last  night,  with  the  thirst  of  a  fish — 
I  've  vigor  enough  though  to  kill  you, 

Mon  ami,  and  that 's  all  I  wish — 
Keep  cool,  keep  your  temper,  I  beg  you — 

Don't  fret  yourself — Now  by  your  leave 
I  '11  finish  you  off — help,  Marigny  ! 

His  sword  's  in  my  heart,  I  believe. 

God  !     God  !     What  a  mortification  ! 
The  Amontillado  last  night — 


6O  A'  OUTRANGE 

Was  drinking,  you  know,  and  my  hand  shook, 
My  head,  too,  was  dizzy  and  light. 

And  I  the  best  swordsman  in  Paris  ! 
No  priest,  please,  for  such  as  I  am — 

I  'm  going — Good-bye,  my  Marigny ; 
De  Genlis,  my  love  to  Madame." 


SANTA  LUCIA. 

IN  Naples'  streets,  long  years  gone  by, 
I  heard  the  tune  he  plays  to-day  ; — 
I  wonder  if  he  sees  with  me 
The  brimming  streets,  the  sun-seamed  quay, 
The  sapphire  of  the  southern  sky 
With  sheen  full  flung  upon  the  bay. 

His  violin  is  out  of  tune, 

And  yet  it  summons,  clear  and  true, 
The  perfect  harmony  that  broods 
Above  those  sunny  latitudes 
Where  "  it  seemed  always  afternoon  " — 
I  wonder  if  he  feels  it  too  ? 

Alas  I  fear  he  only  sees 

Cold  glances  at  his  outstretched  hat  ; 
61 


62  SANTA   LUCIA 

The  long  extent  of  dreary  street 
111  cheered  by  glints  of  sun  that  beat, 
Half  shivering,  through  the  leafless  trees, — 
And,  ("  Grazzi  Senor  ")  he  sees  that. 

Well,  comrade,  may  it  swell  the  store 
To  bear  thee  over  seas  again 

To  those  old  streets,  where,  thank  thy  tune, 
My  thoughts  have  roamed  this  winter  noon, 
Where  we  may  meet  perhaps  once  more, 
A  rivederla  ! — Until  then  ! 


TO   VIOLET, 

WITH   A    BUNCH    OF    NAMESAKES. 

THERE  is  a  maid — I  am  afraid 

To  give  her  name  to  you — 
Who  makes  great  pets  of  violets — 

I  wish  I  were  one,  too. 

Once  in  her  youth,  this  all  is  truth, 
She  took  some  up  to  smell ; — 

In  some  strange  way  the  records  say, 
Into  her  eyes  they  fell — 

And  there  they  stayed — they  never  fade,- 
She  looks  at  me — sometimes, — 

And  then — Oh  then  I  seize  my  pen 
And  fall  to  writing  rhymes. 

But,  sad  mischance  !     My  consonants 

Desert — four  vowels,  too  ; 
A,  E,  O,  I,  take  wings,  that  's  why 

My  rhymes  are  filled  with  U. 

63 


THACKERAY'S    BIRTHDAY. 

A    BARMECIDE    FEAST    IN    ITS    HONOR. 

OPEN  his  books  and  bid  them  forth  ; — 
Come  Clive,  come  Ethel,  Colonel,  "  Pen  "  ; 

Come  Henry  Esmond,  Beatrix, 
Out  into  our  dull  world  again. 

George  Warrington,  "  Pen's  "  George,  I  mean, 

(His  grandpapa  I  vote  a  prig  ;) 
Come  too,  and  Major,  if  you  're  dressed, 

And  Morgan  has  arranged  your  wig  : 

Come  Hetty — Harry  Warrington — 

And  Bernstein  ? — Well,  no,  as  for  her — 
We  've  Beatrix  already  here, 

And  Beatrix  we  much  prefer. 
64 


THACKERAY'S  BIRTHDAY  65 

Come  Becky,  Emmy,  Dobbin,  George  ; 

Here  's  Captain  "  Cos  "  must  have  a  place 
About  the  board,  and  now  we  're  met, 

Charles  Honeyman  shall  breathe  a  grace. 

And  then  Fred  Bayham,  honest  Fred, 

With  claret  jug  pushed  well  his  way, 
Shall  give  the  toast,  that  suits  all,  most, 

Of  William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 


What,  are  they  gone  !     Some  jarring  force 
Upon  the  vision  rudely  broke, — 

My  pipe  is  out,  my  guests  are  gone, — 

They  've  vanished  somewhere  in  the  smoke. 

With  nimble  feet  their  way  they  take 
Down  shadowy  paths  of  romance  dim  ; 

But  I,  a  lonely  Barmecide, 

Drink  deeply  in  my  heart  to  him. 


66  THACKERAY'S  BIRTHDAY 

THE    TOAST. 

To  him  who  in  the  fields  of  life 

Quickly  discerned  the  vulgar  chaff, — 

And  knew  it  void  of  honest  grain, 
And  blew  it  from  him  with  a  laugh. 

To  him  whose  laughter  none  the  less 
Was  not  wild  mirth  nor  wanton  jeer, 

But  oftenest  of  that  rare  fine  ring 
That  finds  its  echo  in  a  tear. 

To  him  whose  pen  was  never  still, 

Who  for  three  decades  thought  and  wrote  ; 

Who  told  of  life,  of  love,  of  death, 
And  never  struck  an  untrue  note. 


THE  OLD  SMOKER. 

WHEN  I  was  young  and  my  hair  was  thick 
And  purse  was  thin,  I  used  to  smoke 

Cigars  that  now  would  make  me  sick  ; 
Yet  from  their  fumes  I  could  evoke 

Such  visions  as  I  never  see 
Now  I  am  old. 

Within  each  rank  cheroot  rolled  tight 
A  world  of  dreams  there  used  to  be — 

I  conquered  new  worlds  every  night ; 
One  such  cheroot  would  conquer  me, 
Now  I  am  old. 

Some  of  those  dreams  I  can't  forget, — 

And  some  came  true,  I  Ve  wealth  and  name ; 

And  one  was — but  a  dream,  and  yet 
67 


68  THE   OLD  SMOKER 

I  'm  smoking  still  and  much  the  same, 
Now  I  am  old. 

I  recollect  that  those  cigars 

That  brought  that  faithless  dream  to  me 
Turned  bitterest  ashes.     Let  them  be, — 

Let  ashes  cover  up  old  scars, 
Now  I  am  old. 

I  'm  fifty  odd — my  hair  is  thin — 
My  purse  is  stout,  and  so  am  I ; 

I  take  not  half  the  old  comfort  in 
The  best  Perfecto  I  can  buy, — 

And  visions  I  no  longer  see, 

And  smoke  is  only  smoke  to  me, 
Now  I  am  old. 


THE  COLONEL'S  STORY. 

ONE  night  last  summer  as  we  strolled 
Under  the  stars,  the  Colonel  and  I, 
He  told  this  story,  and  here  I  try 

To  tell  it  just  as  I  heard  it  told. 

"  Yes,"   said  the  Colonel.    "  I  think  with  you 
That  full  nine  tenths  of  the  fine  things  done 

In  the  war  are  barely  known  to  a  few, — 
And  for  example,  here  is  one. 

"  It  is  in  battle,  Antietam,  some 

Call  it  Sharpsburg,  down  in  the  corn 

Shells  are  bursting,  minie  balls  hum, 
Saving  the  reapers  trouble,  and  borne 

Along  the  line  from  the  charging  right 

Comes  the  roar  of  the  midday  fight. 
69 


70  THE   COLONEL'S  STORY 

"  Here  are  two  regiments,  one  in  gray, 
The  other  in  blue — so  very  near, 

Barely  a  score  of  yards  away, — 

You  fairly  see  the  passions  play 
Across  the  faces  and  you  hear — 
I  hear  it  now,  the  yell  and  cheer, 

As,  firing  into  each  other's  faces, 

The  men  load,  fire,  and  drop  in  their  places. 

"  You  can't  tell  what  a  battle  is — 

Not  the  least  bit  what  it  's  like — unless 

You  've  been  there  and  heard  the  whizz 

Of  the  bullets,  and  all, — but  what  's  the  use  ! 

I  can't  describe  it — Hell  broke  loose 
Is,  mildly  enough,  descriptive,  I  guess. 

"  Fingers  that  never  seem  to  tire 
To  load  and  fire  and  load  and  fire, — 
Faces  grimy  with  powder  and  sweat, — 
Eyes  with  the  gleam  of  the  bayonet, — 
Shouts,  howls,  curses  ;  the  best  men  swear 


THE   COLONELS  STORY 

In  battle — It  does  n't  mean  much  there. 
One  thought  blazing  in  old  and  young, 
The  wish  the  minie  ball  always  sung ; 
And  that  was  frankly,  murder,  although 
In  battle  we  seldom  call  it  so. 

"  But  to  my  story  ;  I  need  n't  take 
The  trouble  to  say  that  by  and  by 
In  such  a  fire,  one  side  must  break  ; 
And  suddenly  under  the  drifting  smoke 
I  saw  the  gray  line  all  but  broke 
And  seemed  to  be  flinching,  when  a  man 
Bearing  a  flag,  sprang  out  of  the  van 
Back  to  his  own  and  face  to  the  foe 
Between  the  regiments,  to  and  fro, 
Flaunting  his  flag  ; — a  moment  or  so' 
And  all  was  over. — 

Perhaps  you  think 
Men  in  the  heat  of  battle  shrink 

From  shooting  a  man  for  some  gallant  act 
Some  deed  like  that — Ah  well,  I  know 


72  THE   COLONEL'S  STORY 

In  fiction  they  often  tell  us  so, — 
Hardly,  I  fear,  it  holds  in  fact ; 
Pity  's  a  virtue  that  don't  inspire 
Right  in  the  hell  of  a  hot  file-fire  ; — 
'  Shoot  the  damn  fool  with  the  flag,'  they  said  : 
A  hundred  minie  balls  stretched  him  dead. 

"  Down  he  fell  all  shrouded  about 

With  the  poor  torn  rag  that  he  served  so  well ; 

We  fired  again,  and  then  with  a  yell 
Charged,  and  they  broke  to  the  rear  in  rout. 
We  wrenched  the  flag,  it  is  war's  hard  way, 
From  the  grasp  of  the  dead  man,  where  he  lay. 

"  Dead  ?     Oh  yes,  but  think  of  the  life 
He  lived  for  reward  in  that  little  space 

When  far  above  the  smoke  and  strife 
His  courage  flew,  and  from  his  place 

Waving  the  flag  from  its  riddled  mast, 
He  sprang  out,  facing  the  shrinking  line 

And  knew  the  next  moment  would  be  his  last  ! — 


THE   COLONELS  STORY  73 

Why,  all  he  needed  to  be  divine 
Was  death,  and  that  came  on  apace  ! 

"  Perhaps  in  some  pleasant  Southern  State 
Some  there  were  to  vender  and  wait, — 
To  start  at  the  beat  of  a  passing  drum 
And  long  for  a  step  that  would  never  come. 

Perhaps  the  only  ones  who  sighed 
Were  the  very  men  who  shot  him  there  ; — 

Even  in  war  it  's  a  general  rule 

The  heart  gets  soft  when  the  head  gets  cool, 
Then,  courage  is  courage  everywhere, — 

And  they  loved  him  for  the  death  he  died. 

All  men  are  n't  heroes,  but  some  men  are," 
Said  the  Colonel,  relighting  his  cold  cigar. 


SONGS  AND  SONNETS. 


75 


SERENADE  IN  SEVILLE. 

ALL  murmur,  all  motion  is  hushed  on  the  Prado, 

Concita, 

No  echoing  tread  in  the  dark  street  is  heard, 
I  stand  here  alone  at  my  heart's  El  Dorado, 

Carita, 
Waiting  for  one  little  word. 

Aslant  the  Giralda  the  moon  pours  its  riches, 

Concita, 
And  through  the  dark  church   draws  a   pathway  of 

light ; 

The  saints  are  asleep  in  their  shrines  and  their  niches, 
Carita, 

We  only  are  wakeful  to-night. 

77 


78  SONGS  AND   SONNETS 

All  Seville  is  sleeping  about  me,  above  me, 

Concita, 

Alone  in  the  dark  I  am  waiting  for  hope  or  despair, 
So  drop  me  a  token  to  show  that  you  love  me, 

Carita, 
Or  drop  the  stiletto  that  gleams  in  your  hair. 


AVALON. 

WE  seek  a  land  beneath  the  early  beams 
Of  stars  that  rise  beyond  the  sunset  gate, 
Where  all  the  year  the  twilight  lingers  late, 

Athwart  whose  coast  the  last  born  sun-ray  gleams. 

Fair  are  the  fields  and  full  of  pleasant  streams, 
Far  sound  the  hedgerows  with  the  burgher  bees, 
Soft  are  the  winds  and  taste  of  Southern  seas, 

Night  brings  no  longing  there,  and  sleep  no  dreams. 

O  tillerman,  steer  true,  while  we  who  bow 
Above  the  oarshafts  sing  the  land  we  seek, 

Land  of  the  past,  its  rapture  and  its  ruth  ; 
Future  we  ask  none,  we  are  memories  now, 
We  bear  the  years  whose  lips  no  longer  speak, 
And  round  our  galley's  prow  the  name  is  Youth. 


79 


SONG. 

SITTING  here  before  thy  feet, 
Life  to  me  is  all  complete, 
Black-browed  Care  beats  swift  retreat 
When  we  are  together,  Love  ! 

What  care  I  for  changing  skies, 
I  am  only  weather-wise 
In  the  heaven  of  thine  eyes — 
Little  reck  I  whether,  Love, 

Moments  pass  or  hours  flee, 
What  has  time  to  do  with  thee, 
What  has  time  to  do  with  me, 
When  we  are  together,  Love  ! 


80 


MIDSUMMER  NOON. 

FROM  distant  pasture  lands  the  bleat  of  sheep 
Comes  lazily  upon  the  wind  to  me  ; — 
About  my  window  trolls  a  vagrant  bee 

Low  drowsy  music  to  the  flowers  asleep  : 

Beyond  the  orchard  yellow  wheat  stands  deep, 
And  scythes  bright-bladed  glitter  to  and  fro, — 
And  suited  to  the  cadence,  rhythmic,  low, 

Drifts  back  the  measured  song  of  those  who  reap. 

The  spider  sleeps  within  his  hammock  woof, 
The  lizard  on  the  sun-bathed  dial  sprawls  ; 
Above  my  head  I  hear  the  drowsy  croon 
Of  doves  beneath  the  jutting  of  the  roof  ; 
While  from  the  zenith  with  the  suntide  falls 
The  subtle  somnolence  of  summer  noon. 


81 


IN  PRAISE  OF  DUSK. 

FOR  some  they  love  the  morning  hours, 

The  yellow  midday  some, — 
But  give  to  me  the  twilight  when 

The  cricket  voices  come, — 

When  bright  against  the  hedgerows  burn 

The  early  fire-flies  : 
For  then  I  meet  my  sweetheart  with 

The  dusk  light  in  her  eyes. 

Behind  the  Western  hill  the  sun 

Is  far  upon  its  way, — 
Though  twilight  lingering  seems  to  be 

An  after-thought  of  day  ; 

And  when  we  part  at  dark  I  know, 

Unworthy  though  I  be, 
That  in  her  eyes'  sweet  twilight  lies 

An  after-thought  of  me. 


82 


TO  A  HARVEST  APPLE-TREE. 

HALF  up  the  trunk  a  bluebird  had  its  nest 
Hid  in  the  crumbling  bole — in  peril  too, 

For  oftentimes  my  clambering  feet  found  rest 
In  the  same  hollow  ; — farther  up  there  grew 

Straight  slender  shoots,  tributes  the  old  tree  threw 
To  Nature's  law  that  new  must  spring  from  old, 
Then  gray  forked  limbs,  green  tangles  then,  till,  gold, 

High  up  the  apples  glittered  into  view. 

Apples  that  each  year  fewer  came,  and  those 
That  ripened,  matchless,  water-cored,  complete, 

Swung  all  unseen  save  by  an  idle  boy. 
The  old  tree  grew  as  oft  an  old  dame  grows, 

Crabbed  and  harsh,  yet  keeping  still  some  sweet, 
Some  gift  in  secret  for  a  grandchild's  joy. 


83 


AN  OPEN  QUESTION. 

MENALCAS  pipes — 

Damoetas  sings. 
"  Phyllis  had  no  heart  at  all, 

(Soft,  Menalcas,  pipe  in  tune  !) 
But  her  form  was  fair  and  tall 
And  her  voice  held  one  in  thrall 
Like  a  nightingale's  in  June. 
(Soft,  Menalcas,  pipe  in  tune  !) 


"  So,  since  Phyllis  had  no  heart, 

(Slow  now,  boy,  nor  quick,  nor  gay  !) 
To  supply  the  missing  part, 
With  her  face  and  woman's  art, 
She  has  stolen  mine  away. 

(Slow  now,  boy,  nor  quick,  nor  gay  !  ") 

84 


AN  OPEN  QUESTION  8$ 

Damoetas  pipes — 

Menalcas  sings. 
"  Phyllis  had  a  heart  of  old, 

(Pitch  a  tune  for  lovers'  feet !) 
For  I  watched  her  life  unfold 
Like  a  meadow  marigold, 

Sweeter  maid  one  may  not  meet. 
(Pitch  a  tune  for  lovers'  feet  !) 

"  All  things  have  a  cause  you  see  ; 

(Soft  now,  gently,  if  you  will  !) 
When  she  stole  your  heart  from  thee 
She  had  lost  her  own  to  me. 

Jealously  I  guard  it,  still. 

(Soft  now,  gently,  if  you  will ! ") 

Damoetas — 
"  Pan  !     What  gross  effrontery  ! 

(Let  her  choose  the  one  most  dear  !) 
Even  Delia  laughs  at  thee  ! " 

Menalcas — 


86  SONGS  AND   SONNETS 

"  Delia  laughs  from  jealousy  ; — 
Listen  !     Phyllis'  voice  I  hear. 

(Let  her  choose  the  one  most  dear  !  ") 

Menalcas  and  Damoetas — 
"  Come  !     We  see  you  loitering  there  ; — 

(What  is  this  that  may  have  chanced  ?) 
Laughing  Phyllis,  tall  and  fair — 
What  !     Young  Daphnis  with  her  there  ? 
Have  we  piped  while  others  danced  ? 

(What  is  this  that  may  have  chanced  ?  ") 


IN  BONDAGE. 

THE  bay,  a  burnished  blue,  beneath  the  skies, 
Lies  almost  captive  in  the  mystic  charm 
Of  dim  black  headlands,  with  one  silver  arm 

Linked  with  the  Mother  sea,  beyond  that  lies. 

Across  the  languid  lift  a  sea  bird  plies 

From  shadeless  shore,  to  shadeless  shore  away, 
And  far  below,  upon  the  breathless  bay, 

A  shadow  bird  pursues  it,  as  it  flies. 

O  sleeping  bay,  my  heart  asleep  with  thee, 
Is  prisoner  in  the  lands  of  yesterday  ; 

Those  far  fair  lands,  along  whose  drowsy  streams 
The  voices,  calling  from  the  outside  sea, 
Meet  no  response,  and  baffled,  die  away, 
Unheeded  on  the  dim  frontier  of  dreams. 


THE  SHADOW  ROSE. 

A  NOISETTE  on  my  garden  path 
An  ever  swaying  shadow  throws  ; 

But  if  I  pluck  it  strolling  by, 

I  pluck  the  shadow  with  the  rose. 

Just  near  enough  my  heart  you  stood 
To  shadow  it, — But  was  it  fair 

In  him,  who  plucked  and  bore  you  off, 
To  leave  your  shadow  lingering  there  ? 


"I   WILL   LIFT   UP   MINE   EYES   UNTO 
THE  HILLS." 

THERE  is  no  joy  upon  the  mountain's  side ; 
Below  the  meadows  lie,  and  dull  content, 
The  swift  bees  following  the  clover  scent, 

The  peasant,  like  his  oxen,  heavy-eyed. 

But  far  above,  where  whirling  cloud-scarves  hide 
The  sentry  crags'  gray,  flinty  armament, 
The  spirit  straightens  like  a  bow  unbent, 

Filled  with  the  rapture  of  dim  paths  untried. 

Sweet  is  the  valley  music, — Sweet  the  hum 
Of  bees, — but  on  beyond  the  upland  mist 
Which  sets  false  barriers  to  feeble  wills, 
Are  triumph  tones,  sonorous  chords  that  come, 
As  from  the  touch  of  some  strong  organist 
Hidden  amid  the  transepts  of  the  hills. 


89 


THE  LOST  SHIP. 

ALONG  the  shore  of  the  sunset 
The  sombre  cloud-drifts  lie, 

Dark  shoals  in  the  yellow  ocean 

That  floods  through  the  Western  sky. 

And  I  often  stand  in  the  twilight 
When  the  West  begins  to  pale, 

To  watch,  away  in  the  distance, 
For  the  gleam  of  a  vanished  sail — 

The  sail  of  a  ship  treasure  laden 
With  dreams  of  a  time  gone  by, 

That  sails  for  aye  in  the  ocean 

That  floods  through  the  Western  sky. 


90 


LOVE   LAY  ASLEEP. 

LOVE  lay  asleep  one  noon  in  dim  Cathay, 
And  as  he  slept  Fate  passed,  and  having  seen 
The  bow  still  strung,  the  sheaf  of  arrows  keen, 

From  out  the  quiver  stole  two  shafts  away. 

Fate  with  her  calm  face,  neither  grave  nor  gay, 
Fate  without  heart,  who  neither  weeps  nor  smiles, 
Launched  them,  and  through  ten  thousand  weary  miles 

They  found  a  mark  within  our  hearts  that  day. 

Shall  we  blame  Love,  because  thy  lips  and  mine 
Must  smile  on  all  the  world,  yet  never  touch  ? 

Shall  we  blame  love  for  that  keen  archery 
That  stung  with  sweet  despair  my  heart  and  thine  ? 
Ah  no,  blame  Fate,  yet  blame  not  over-much, 
For  Love  is  blind,  and  might  have  passed  us  by. 


THE   ROSARY. 

THE  hours  I  spent  with  thee,  dear  heart, 

Are  as  a  string  of  pearls  to  me  ; 
I  count  them  over,  every  one  apart, 
My  rosary. 

Each  hour  a  pearl,  each  pearl  a  prayer, 

To  still  a  heart  in  absence  wrung  ; 
I  tell  each  bead  unto  the  end  and  there 
A  cross  is  hung. 

Oh  memories  that  bless — and  burn  ! 
Oh  barren  gain — and  bitter  loss  ! 
I  kiss  each  bead  and  strive  at  last  to  learn, 
To  kiss  the  cross, 
Sweetheart, 

To  kiss  the  cross. 


92 


AN  OLD  ITALIAN  GARDEN. 


THE  gate  is  long  since  gone  ;  where  once  it  stood, 
Marking  the  spot,  twin  carven  pillars  bide  ; 
Within  two  lichened  walls  go,  side  by  side  ; 

A  tiled  way  lies  between,  all  overhung 

With  branches  drowsy  ilex  trees  have  flung 

Across  the  walls  :  branches  half  breathless,  spread 
Like  hands  bespeaking  silence, — overhead 

One  locust  tests  his  viol,  tensely  strung. 

Upon  the  tiles,  slow  weaving  through  the  loom 
Of  leaves,  the  noon  flings  dusky  tapestries  ; 

And  here  is  shadow  with  no  hint  of  gloom, 
And  sunlight  here  is  gentle  to  the  eyes. 

The  garden  lies  beyond,  half-seen,  unknown, 

Lulled  by  a  hidden  fountain's  monotone. 

93 


94  SONGS  AND  SONNETS 

II. 

The  garden  sleeps  and  dreaming  deep  it  sees, 
Green  alleys  haunted  by  the  gods  of  eld  ; 
Again  the  slender  calamus  is  held 

To  lip  of  faun,  and  reedy  melodies 

Call  up  shy  Echo  couched  amid  the  trees. 
The  gods  throng  back  into  the  days  that  be — 
Old  dreaming  garden,  I  will  dream  with  thee,  • 

And  people  sleep  with  lost  divinities. 

One  god  alone  will  stray  into  my  sleep, 
A  tearful  boy,  out-barring  all  the  rest. 
Ah,  bitter  lot,  that  he  should  be  supreme, 

And  yet  with  blind  eyes  too  compelled  to  weep  ! 
Poor  play  of  shallow  words,  when  truth  is  best,- 

I  have  not  slept,  and  he  is  not  a  dream. 


RIDING  SONG. 

MAKING  tide,  and  a  midnight  moon  ; 

Where  do  we  ride  to-night  ? 
White  to  seaward,  white  each  dune, 

White  as  the  surf  is  white. 
Hoofs  of  horses,  steady,  in  tune, 

Beat  like  a  pulse  of  the  night. 

Bit  to  bit  and  an  easy  rein, 

Neither  of  us  to  lead  ; 
I  will  forget  the  course  is  vain, 

Time  and  to  spare  for  heed, 
When  the  moon  dips  down  and  the  planets  wane, 

And  a  dark  dawn  checks  the  speed. 

Flood-tide,  and  now  we  ride, 

Hark  to  the  eight-hoof  beat ! 
95 


96  SONGS  AND   SONNETS 

Fetlock  deep,  when  the  spent  waves  hide 

Track  of  the  galloping  feet  : 
Life  swings  free,  the  world  sweeps  wide, 

Breath  of  the  sea  blows  sweet. 

Then  ride,  for  dawn  is  swift  and  sure, 

And  an  ebb  must  always  be  ; 
This  magic  moon  will  but  endure 

One  hour  more  up  from  the  sea. 
The  gold  of  a  year  of  sun  's  too  poor 

To  buy  that  hour  of  me  ! 

Though  it  has  no  thread  in  the  loom  of  the  past, 
Though  a  future  has  been  denied, 

Though  I  may  not  hold  it,  riding  fast, 
And  it  die,  die,  die,  as  we  ride  ; 

The  rim  of  the  moon  has  touched  at  last, 
And  here  is  the  turn  of  the  tide. 

Oh  never  for  me  a  moon  shall  rise 
To  shine  as  this  moon  has  shone  ; 


RIDING  SONG  97 

Like  a  bark  aflame,  hull-down,  it  lies, 
Like  a  spent  flame  sunk  it  has  gone, 

To  shine,  where  a  haunted  flood-tide  cries 
To  the  coasts  of  Avalon. 

THE   END 


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